‘I know you don’t like me, Mr Kemp, but I’m still going to help you. I’ve tried once and I’ll try again.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
‘Now, this is a hot one,’ he said. ‘You know Raymond White?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He works at El Cerco – keeps the boats in order, things like that.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve met him.’
‘You remember the testimony at the inquest. Mrs Salton said her husband left the house and she thought he’d taken a plane flight. The plane took off at eleven in the morning. Right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then, when the plane came back and she discovered he had never been on it, she telephoned the police. While they were at El Cerco she remembered about the boat and it was found missing. The assumption was that Salton had taken it to sea, had a heart attack and died.’
‘All correct so far.’
Hawke leaned comfortably back in his chair and twinkled at me. ‘What if somebody came forward and said that the boat was in the boathouse at three in the morning the day after Salton was last seen? And what if he said that it was missing an hour later?’
‘Is someone saying that?’
‘Why don’t you ask Ray White?’ He smiled at me. ‘I’ve handed it to you on a platter.’ He put up a finger. ‘What the hell was Salton doing between eleven in the morning and four the next morning wearing only shorts and a polo shirt?’ A second finger. ‘White will say that a woman took the boat away.’ A third finger. ‘So where the hell does that leave Mrs Salton?’
I glanced at McKittrick. He had not said a word since Hawke came into the room. He just looked sick.
SEVEN
I
I telephoned Hanna from McKittrick’s house and told him about it. This was something for the police to handle: Hanna wouldn’t thank me if I played the amateur detective and interrogated White, however skilfully I might do it. With several pairs of ears in the room, I told the story baldly, sticking to the facts and avoiding the speculation with which Hawke had embroidered it.
A long silence bored into my ear, and I said, ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m thinking,’ said Hanna testily. ‘Someone on this case has got to think some time. Hawke told you all this?’
‘That’s right. Wasn’t White questioned during the original investigation?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hanna. ‘Barstow handled the El Cerco end personally. Wait a minute – I’ll check the report.’
As I waited I stared at McKittrick, who was still slumped in the chair gazing into space. I looked around the room. Lena McKittrick was finishing her beer but there was no sign of Hawke. ‘Where’s Joe?’
She put down the glass. ‘He’s gone.’ She smiled slightly. ‘He’s got work to do.’
‘I’ll bet he has,’ I said. ‘The revolution must go on.’ I wondered how he’d use this latest development.
Lena looked at her husband. ‘At least he does something.’ Was that a touch of contempt in her voice?
Hanna came back on the line. ‘There’s nothing in the report about White being questioned. Looks like Barstow botched it. Is that patrolman still with you?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure why, though.’
‘To stop you getting your head blown off,’ said Hanna irritably. ‘I told you to let me know where you were every minute of the day. You didn’t tell me you were going to the McKittrick place.’
‘It came up suddenly,’ I said.
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I think I’ll go back to El Cerco.’
‘I’ll meet you there,’ said Hanna. ‘But don’t do a damn thing until I see you. Especially don’t talk about this to anyone. That goes for McKittrick and Hawke, too.’
‘Hawke isn’t here,’ I said. ‘Apparently he had business to attend to.’
‘Christ!’ said Hanna. ‘More trouble. Something interesting has happened here. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.’ He hung up.
I put down the telephone and said, ‘Superintendent Hanna wants you to keep quiet about this, at least until he’s had a chance to see what White has to say.’
McKittrick stirred. ‘Sure. Don’t cause trouble, keep the temperature down. That’s all the police think of.’
I said, ‘I don’t understand you, McKittrick – or Hawke, either. As far as I can see, you Campanillans have got it made. Independence without any conditions, a booming economy with few legal restrictions, and an island paradise to enjoy it all. So what’s Hawke doing, trying to stir up revolution? Is it just a hangover from his Black Power days in the States?’
‘You don’t know much about us, do you?’ McKittrick stood up. ‘Let me show you something.’
I followed him out of the house. The police patrolman sat astride his cycle a little way down the road; he appeared to be manicuring his nails. When we came out of the house he put away the file and laid his hands on the controls in readiness for a quick start. McKittrick ignored him and pointed across the valley. ‘See that house there?’
It was a shanty, half fieldstone and half corrugated iron. ‘That belongs to Amos Shadlow,’ said McKittrick. ‘Let me tell you about Amos. Not long ago we were a British colony with all the trimmings, including a governor in a feathered cocked hat. We had colonial police to oppress us and the economy was stagnant. We thought we were hard done by. But Amos could make a living – not a good living, but a living. The only thing you British ever did for us was to educate some of us, and what good was that? What good was education on a stinking poor island like this? It just led to trouble and trouble we had in plenty, so the British walked away and we got our freedom.’
He threw his arms wide. ‘Freedom! We all thought we’d been given the promised land, but what did we actually get? We got Conyers.’
‘You got self-rule,’ I said. ‘The government you wanted.’
‘We got a government,’ said McKittrick. ‘But not the one we wanted. Unnoticed by anybody, that education the British gave us led to a prosperous middle class, and let me tell you, Mr Kemp, that rule by the prosperous middle class is ten times worse than colonial rule. Amos Shadlow over there isn’t oppressed any more, he’s just ignored. He’s an irrelevance to the fat cats in government. Conyers made a deal with Cardew Street and the money poured in, but none of it reaches Amos. His wages haven’t gone up in the last five years but the price of his food has risen by forty-four per cent. Housing costs are up fifty-four per cent, so when Amos wanted to repair his house he couldn’t afford it. He had to patch it up with corrugated iron.’
‘This is nothing new,’ I said unsympathetically. ‘Most politics boil down to economics.’
‘Right!’ said McKittrick. ‘And that’s why Joe Hawke is trying to stir up revolution, as you put it. So there is Amos Shadlow: his house is draughty and leaks, so he gets sick. His sickness hits him harder than it should because he isn’t getting enough of the right food. And I’m expected to cure him.’
‘When I saw you planting corn – the man you were with was Amos?’
McKittrick nodded. ‘I do what I can. Corn meal mush is not a good diet but it’s better than nothing. Meanwhile, Conyers has just bought himself a Mercedes 600, every member of the Cabinet runs a car at the public’s expense and they’re all directors of Cardew Street companies.’ He spat into the dust of the road. ‘This government is corrupt to the core.’
‘Salton seemed to have the answer,’ I said. ‘At least a better answer than Joe. Hawke’s a destroyer, McKittrick – that’s all he understands. He wants to pull down the government.’
‘Nothing wrong with that. Salton wanted it too.’
‘True. But Hawke wants to destroy Cardew Street, and what the hell does he propose to put in its place? From what I’ve learned about Salton, he was enough of a politician to realise that the system exists and has to be lived with. It’s the source of economic power and he wanted government to control it, instead of being controlled by it. But Ha
wke wants to destroy it and I’d hate to see what would happen here then. Campanilla would sink to the level of Haiti.’
McKittrick nodded gloomily. ‘But Salton is dead,’ he said flatly. ‘And that means the Liberal Party is too. So what else is there? Someone has to do something about those fat bastards guzzling at the public trough, and the only runner in sight is Joe Hawke.’
‘Not if you’re in the race,’ I said. ‘Think about it. Think damned hard. Joe Hawke is only tough if no one stands up to him.’ I checked the time. ‘I’d better be going.’
McKittrick turned on his heel and went back into the house without saying a word. I stared at the closed door for a moment and then got into my car. As I did so, I heard the patrolman start his engine with a crackling roar. I turned the car and came abreast of him. ‘El Cerco,’ I shouted, and he nodded briefly.
II
I had no trouble getting past the gate at El Cerco but my escort tactfully stayed outside. Apparently I had some kind of a day pass. I drove down to the quay and parked the car. Ray White was polishing the metalwork on one of the boats but I ignored him, following Hanna’s instructions. I could have gone across to the island but I didn’t feel like talking to Jill Salton right then – I might have given something away. I stood about for a while and, in the end, went up to the airstrip for something to do.
The Haslams were sitting by the swimming pool at the side of their house, very much as they had been on my first visit. It would appear that they, especially Mrs Haslam, lived in a sort of alcohol-induced nirvana, a lotus existence of the type usually found only in the travel advertisements of the glossier Sunday supplements. It was a surprise to remember that Haslam had been to New York and back in the interim.
He got to his feet as I walked over. He looked more worried than ever. ‘Hi, Mr Kemp. What can I do for you?’
I smiled. ‘You can offer me a drink,’ I suggested. ‘It’s another hot day.’
‘Sure,’ he said, and turned to his wife. ‘Bette, how’s the jug doing?’
‘See for yourself,’ she said without looking up. ‘I’m not your slave.’ There was an edginess in her voice I hadn’t heard the last time I was there.
Haslam peered into the jug. ‘Room for one more.’ He pulled over a cane chair. ‘Take a seat.’
I took the chair and placed it so that I could see the gate to the estate in the distance across the airstrip. I wanted to know when Hanna arrived. ‘How did the flight to the States go?’ I asked.
‘Not bad. No trouble to speak of.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Philadelphia. Mrs Salton went to see her sister-in-law.’ He handed me a glass.
‘Thanks. Did she say anything about her plans for the plane?’ Haslam shook his head and the lines about his eyes deepened. ‘Maybe you’d better ask her,’ I said.
‘Hell, no! I don’t want to buy trouble.’ He was drinking this time and took a deep slug from his glass.
‘At least you’d know one way or the other,’ I said. ‘You’d be able to make plans.’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t want to put ideas into her head. Maybe she hasn’t even thought about it. I’d be a damned fool if I gave her the notion.’
Bette Haslam snorted. ‘No, you don’t want to give Mrs Salton any ideas. Any ideas at all.’ She was tipsy again – not incapably so, but in that alcoholic haze which the heavy drinker is able to maintain indefinitely.
‘Shut up, Bette,’ said Haslam. He said it with a lack of force and a little tiredly, as though it was something he said automatically and without thinking. A routine reprimand. ‘You want anything in particular, Mr Kemp?’
I looked over at the gate. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Just taking the air and sitting in the sun.’ I stretched out my legs. ‘Somebody told me that whenever the plane leaves this island, you have to call in at Benning.’
‘That’s right. We get nicked for the departure tax.’
‘Aircrew, too?’
‘Everybody,’ he said firmly. ‘No exceptions.’
‘Sounds like a profitable tax,’ I said. ‘What about coming back? I suppose you fly directly here.’ I didn’t really want to know: I was just making conversation.
‘No. We have to land at Benning for a Customs check.’ He grinned. ‘They get us coming and going.’
‘Even millionaires? What would they be smuggling?’
‘The Saltons wouldn’t be smuggling anything,’ said Haslam. ‘Mr Salton was very hot on that type of thing. Everything was declared if he was bringing anything in, and he paid the duty on the nail. A man in his position, it wouldn’t be worth his while to be caught avoiding Customs duty.’ He tapped himself on the chest. ‘Aircrew are different. You’d be surprised at what aircrew can get away with. And don’t the Customs boys know it: they always give us a real going over.’
‘Looking for what?’
He shrugged. ‘Drugs, most likely. They’ve never found anything on us. Mr Salton gave me strict orders about that type of thing and nothing got on that plane that I didn’t know about. But the Customs had to check just the same.’
‘In the line of duty,’ I said. ‘I know what you mean. A pity people have to be so suspicious.’
Bette Haslam said, ‘You can’t trust anyone these days. But God, the things I saw when I was a hostess.’
‘You were an air hostess?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘A flying waitress. It’s not so glamorous, not like they make out. You spend your life wiping off snotty-nosed kids and holding vomit bags and fending off passes from drunks – especially first-class drunks, where the booze is free. They still get plenty of suckers for the job but I was glad to get out.’ She poked her glass in the direction of her husband. ‘That’s when I met this big clunk.’
There was a car at the gate. I finished my drink and said, ‘Thanks for the cooler. Do you ever get into San Martin?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Haslam.
‘Maybe we can get together. I’d like to repay your hospitality.’
‘What’s a couple of drinks?’ said Haslam. ‘But thanks all the same, Mr Kemp. Maybe we’ll do that.’
I got up, said goodbye and went away with nothing gained but a margarita. When I got down to the quay, a car was just pulling to a halt with my friend on the motorcycle as an outrider. Hanna got out of the car, pulled out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow. I went over to him and said, ‘You made good time.’
‘I’m a demon driver when aroused.’ He glanced at the launch, where Raymond was still polishing the brightwork. ‘Would that be White?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Tell me it again,’ said Hanna. ‘I want to check if I’ve got it right.’
So I told him, and he took a deep breath and stared at White. ‘If this is true, I ought to slap him so that his head spins. I won’t, though. Let’s see what a little honey will do before we resort to vinegar.’
He walked over to the edge of the quay and looked down into the launch. ‘You Raymond White?’
White looked up at him. ‘Yes, sir. Do you want to go over to the island, sir? I didn’t get a call about that.’
‘No,’ said Hanna. ‘It’s you I’ve come to see. Do you mind stepping up here?’ His voice was smooth and soft.
White climbed up on to the quayside. ‘You’ve come to see me, sir?’ He appeared to be bewildered as he looked past Hanna towards me.
‘I’m a police officer,’ said Hanna. ‘And I want to ask you a few questions. Nothing to worry about if you tell the truth.’
White’s face closed up. ‘Questions! What about?’
‘Suppose you show me Mr Salton’s boat – the one he was found in. It’s here, isn’t it?’
‘In the boathouse. This way.’ White led the way to the boathouse and we went inside. There was a big cabin cruiser about forty feet long and equipped for game fishing, there was a thirty-foot sailing boat with the mast unstepped, and there were three dinghies. White pointed. ‘That’s the one – the Flying Fifteen.’<
br />
It didn’t look to me as though it could fly but then I know nothing about dinghies. Hanna said, ‘How did it get back here from San Martin?’
‘Mrs Salton told me to go over and sail her back round after the police had finished with her,’ said White.
‘That must have been about ten days ago.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when did you last see it before that?’ asked Hanna. His voice was casual.
‘I …’ White stopped and started again. ‘That was before Mr Salton took her out.’
Hanna took out a notebook and a pen. ‘The date?’
White’s face wore a hunted look. ‘That’s not easy, sir. It was a while ago.’
‘All right, tell me this. When did Mr Salton disappear?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Not really. It was all a mix-up, wasn’t it?’
‘You must have read the papers,’ said Hanna. ‘Didn’t you see the account of the inquest?’ White stood mute, so Hanna said, ‘According to Mrs Salton’s evidence, he disappeared on the ninth of January at about eleven in the morning. You read about that, didn’t you?’
‘No, sir.’
Hanna frowned. ‘You didn’t? Weren’t you interested? Your boss dies in a strange way and you weren’t interested enough to wonder how it happened? I find that hard to believe, especially since it was your job to look after the boat in which he was found.’
‘I may have read it,’ said White sullenly. ‘I’ve forgotten.’
Hanna said gently, ‘Are you afraid of something, Mr White? You’ve no need to be afraid if you tell the truth. But you have every reason to be afraid if you lie to me. Now, I’m going to ask you a straight question and I want a straight answer. When did you last see that boat before you brought it back from San Martin?’
White shuffled his feet and said in a low voice, ‘On the tenth. Early morning.’
‘Speak up,’ said Hanna. His voice was a whiplash. ‘I didn’t hear that.’
‘All right,’ said White. ‘I saw her on the morning of the tenth of January, about three in the morning.’
‘Where was the boat?’
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